He was brought back when a hand clutched at his shirt.
Crying out with disgust, the Reverend struck the creature with the flaming log. It howled and reeled back, cowering with hands in front of its face.
Throwing the log into the room, the Reverend slammed the door and left the cries of the monsters behind.
In the lounge the situation was even more dire. With the force of a dozen murderous creatures, the front door had been forced open and the kitchen was now packed with their ghastly forms.
He noticed that a few were feasting on the body of the stranger.
Turning his back on the army of fiends, he scanned the tiny lounge and spotted the man’s diary. He grabbed it and hurried over to the fire. He leaned into the glaring heat and dipped the tattered book into the flames. The pages immediately caught on fire. With the blazing book he went around to all the curtains and set the old fabrics on fire. Soon a fierce blaze enveloped the cottage. The noise of the rampage was replaced with painful cries as some of the monsters were caught in the fire.
Finished with the curtains, the Reverend stood and looked up at the picture of Christ. With flames curling all around him, he said, “I don’t know why you have felt it befitting to afflict a simple, honorable man like myself with such horror. If it is punishment, I accept it and take responsibility for my actions.” He paused before adding, “and my beliefs. May God have mercy on my soul.”
He tipped the flaming book over himself and his screams joined with those of the creatures.
Religion fascinates me.
I’m not a religious person; I wasn’t raised by religious parents. Yet, the idea of organised religion still fascinates me. I guess a lot of it has to do with the close association religion has with horror. The Bible could be considered the original horror book. Countless atrocities have been carried out over man’s lifetime in the name of religion. One of the scariest novels of all time (The Exorcist, for those of you playing at home) is a religious-themed horror story.
So this is my religious story, coupled with my other favourite topic — zombies
THE COFFIN
Doug could feel the cigarette lighter clamped in his sweaty hand. He knew he should flick it on, but something kept stopping him. Nerves? His trembling hand? Or finding out that he was stuck in this tomb with no possible way out?
Just flick the lighter on, he told himself. You might be inches away from an opening and not even know it.
But he couldn’t see any hint of light in front. Just blackness.
If only he could pluck up enough courage to simply press his thumb on the flint. Why couldn’t he? Was he that terrified of what he may or may not find?
He blinked warm tears from his eyes. The ache in his neck was beginning to turn into real pain. If he didn’t rest his head soon, he might not be able to move it at all. But there was a sumptuous puddle of terror-induced vomit waiting for him just inches from his nose.
As a diversion, Doug again tried to see if he could worm his way backwards. Clenching his teeth and using the bottoms of his hands, he pushed down against the cold, adamantine floor. Strained his arms until every muscle howled with pain. But his body didn’t move an ant’s dick. He relaxed, blew out a long hot breath and cursed.
Couldn’t go back. He had clearly established that fact. And he couldn’t go forward. He knew it was just as narrow ahead as it was at this section. Because during his panic-stricken period when he first realized that he was stuck, he had tried moving forward, only to find he had forced himself into an even tighter wedge.
He felt like a cork in a champagne bottle. Only no one was going to come and pop him free.
A sharp pain coursed through Doug’s neck. He winced. Keeping his head up was taking its toll.
I have to, he thought.
With a moan, Doug let his head drop to the metal floor. The right side of his face landed in the hot watery mess. The texture alone was enough to make him gag — but then there was the smell. Rancid and immediate. He suppressed another upchuck, and to avoid thinking about the vomit, he concentrated on how good it felt to be resting his head. The severe ache that had been nagging at his neck was beginning to subside, and he felt mildly drowsy, despite the pillow of puke.
Now if I could only muster up the courage to flick on the lighter.
A crazed laugh escaped from Doug’s lips. Why could he lay his head in a pool of vomit, but not flick on a stupid lighter?
He closed his heavy eyes.
Tiredness washed over him.
He fell asleep…
…and dreamed of men chasing him — big, dark men, like the ones who really had chased after him. Only in this dream he had the money to pay them. But for some reason they chased him anyway. He dreamed of ugly old abandoned motels and scummy bathrooms where the only place to escape from these dark men was not through a window, but up into an air duct. And in his dream the walls and ceiling of the air duct suddenly began to close in. Only he could see all around him like it was daytime, and the duct was slowly pressing in on him and he couldn’t do anything about it. Closer and closer until each side of the duct was touching his body. He screamed…
And kept on screaming until he realised that he was awake and that the duct wasn’t closing in like a garbage compactor.
He was just stuck. Like he had been for the past forty minutes.
Or longer? How long was I out for? he wondered, and felt the silver-plated lighter still in his hand. Hadn’t dropped it while he was asleep.
I have to, he thought. There’s no other way.
But what if the duct seems to go on forever? What if there’s absolutely no way out except forwards or backwards?
Then again, what if he found a trapdoor or something?
He was determined not to die trapped in this air duct that smelled of stale piss. And if lighting up this metal coffin might help in that cause, then he had to do it.
He raised his arm off the floor. Like his head, it felt heavy and he could feel bits of puke stuck to his skin. He set his thumb on the flint, paused while he savoured the darkness one last time, then clicked down. Sparks flew but no flame ignited. He tried a few more times.
“Damn,” he muttered, feeling his valiancy slipping with each unrequited click of the flint.
The lighter caught on the fifth try.
A small flame danced, but it wasn’t enough light to see what was around him or up ahead. So he slid the tiny switch that allowed for more lighter fluid across, and the flame grew.
Now he could see every wall and the ceiling of the air duct. Grey metal covered in dust and mould. Then he settled the flame in front of him, to see, finally, what lay beyond.
Doug wailed and pissed his pants.
The skeleton was no more than a metre in front of him. Its outstretched arms were reaching out to him, like some demented attempt at a hug. Doug could see its broken fingernails — chipped in places, completely smashed in others. He looked at its face. Even though he knew that this person would’ve died a most awful death, the way the light bounced off its skull, it looked like it was laughing at him.
Doug didn’t laugh back.
Because fate was no laughing matter.
This story is all about fear. Well, my own personal fear.
One of my worst nightmares is being stuck in a tight place with no way to move. Just the thought of not even being able to move my arms gives me chills. What would make it worse would be knowing there’s a way out, being able to see the light, or a door, but unable to get there. You’re just stuck, unable to move, unable to do anything except stare at freedom and wait…